


water of the womb

by peltonea



Series: let the redeemed of the father tell their story [1]
Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Cults, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Family Fluff, Family Reunions, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Depression, Sex Addiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-03-09 19:16:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18923350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peltonea/pseuds/peltonea
Summary: John Duncan steps out of the elevator, back straight, confidence oozing from every pore. His pace slows only briefly when he catches sight of the man speaking to Stephanie, the echoes of the stranger's voice all rural Southern charm.The man is clearly older than John, in his late twenties or early thirties. He’s wearing yellow-tinted aviators, and a cheaply-made suit that’s slightly ill-fitting, but very carefully pressed. His shoes are ancient, scuffed and worn but polished to hell and back. Poor, verging on impoverished.What John can see of his profile is pretty similar to John’s own in the shape of the nose, the colour of his hair, and the pallor of his skin. And then the man glances up, at John, and— Johnknowsthose eyes, as washed-out as they are behind the yellow glass.It’s him.It’sJoseph.(Or: How John Duncan becomes John Seed. Prequel toexcommunication is the new black.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prequel to 'excommunication is the new black'. You do not have to read that to understand this, or vice versa. 
> 
> I wanted to explore the Seed brothers’ relationship a little more. I didn’t get a chance to do it in the main story because John and Joseph are estranged for nearly all of it and I killed Jacob off before chapter one even began. (I am planning to write a mini-AU where Jake lives, if that would interest anybody.
> 
> Please note that I have never struggled with addiction, self-harm, child abuse, or mental illness. If I portray something in an offensive way or make a mistake, please tell me and I will do my best to correct it. I want to tell a good story, not harm anybody. Rating is for these subjects, as well as some violence and sexual content, because John is… well, he’s John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I DO NOT GIVE PERMISSION FOR THIS WORK TO BE HOSTED ON ANY SITE OTHER THAN AO3, FOR FREE. IF YOU ARE READING THIS ON A THIRD PARTY APP OR SITE, ESPECIALLY WHICH CHARGES A FEE OR OFFERS A SUBSCRIPTION, THE DEVELOPER DOES NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO PROFIT OFF MY WORK. PLEASE DO NOT SUPPORT THESE FRAUDS.

It's really cold. 

Johnny tries to stay really still and to not fidget, because he knows it's bad to fidget. Papa always started yelling whenever Johnny got too restless and moved too much. That always started Mama crying and Jake yelling too and then Johnny and Joe would have to play hide-and-seek and it's too cold to do that here. There's not anywhere good to hide, anyway. There's a table in the middle of the room and three chairs surrounding it and nothing else. He wonders whether Jake will come back if he fidgets a lot. Probably not. Papa isn't here to get mad and Mama isn't here to cry, so Jake has no reason to be here. Jake is their 'pro-tek-ter'.

“I wanna go _home_ ,” Johnny says, tugging on Joe’s sleeve again. He doesn’t like it here. The grown-ups took them away from the barn and the fire and put them in this white room and made them promise to stay. It's been _forever_. The clock on the wall had the little hand near the eight when they got here and now it's gone past the nine.

The room is too cold. And Jake isn’t here.

“We can’t,” Joe replies, and he squeezes Johnny’s hand really hard. It hurts, but Johnny doesn't want to stop holding hands because if he does then maybe Joe will be taken away too. Johnny knows that Joe is trying to make him feel safe. He must feel bad, because he never squeezes so hard. “It burned down, remember?”

“Not the barn,” Johnny says. “I wanna go home-before. I don't _like_ it here.”

“I don't like it here either," Joe says, and he looks sad. He sniffles a little bit, but he doesn't cry. "But we can't go back to our home before either."

“It’s cold…” Johnny complains. Home-before was scary, but it was warm and there were lots of places to hide and Jake was there. Johnny's blanket was there too, the best blanket in the whole world. It was soft and it was blue and it was covered in planes. Joe always helped him wash the blanket when it got dirty, and Jake always sewed it up or patched it when Papa ripped it or Mama burnt a hole in it. It was safe. It was full of love, Joe said, so it always kept the little monsters away. It was a really good blanket because it did that even when Joe and Jake weren’t around, on the nights they were too busy keeping the big monster away, the one they called Papa, who always yelled and broke things and smelled like 'lick-er'. Johnny really wishes that he had his blanket.

Joe lets go of Johnny's hand and climbs off his chair, and he makes it look really easy but it's only because he's getting tall now and his feet can reach the floor. Jake always calls him a beanpole. That's not right, beanpoles are green and Joe is pink and red and white. Johnny tried to tell him that, but Jake just laughed and started playing planes with him, the really fun game where he whirled Johnny around in the air until his squeals made Mama mad. Joe tried to play it a couple of times, but it didn't work so good because even though Joe is tall, Jake is _really_ tall and his arms are _really_ long and he's _really_ strong.

Joe takes off his sweater and pulls it down over Johnny's head. It's the black one that used to belong to Jake before he got too tall. Joe helps Johnny stick his arms through the sleeves, which are really, really, _really_ long. Then he wraps his arms around Johnny, a nice big hug.

“Better?” Joe asks.

Johnny nods, because it is. He isn't cold any more. But he feels bad.

Joe is a very good brother. He always gives Johnny things to make him feel better. He always manages to find a biscuit or a crust of bread when Johnny is hungry, or a cup of water or juice box when he's thirsty. He always tells Johnny a story to help him sleep and he always gives Johnny hugs and helps him wipe his face when he cries. He never ever makes fun of Johnny either, not when he has an accident or has a nightmare or feels sick. Johnny tries to give things back to Joe, but his things don't help much at all. Joe always refuses to take half of the biscuit, and Johnny can't reach the cupboard with the juice boxes. He can't tell very good stories, not like Joe or Jake, and his arms don't reach all the way around his brothers and he's too clumsy and too weak to help them with anything.

Johnny isn't a very good brother, because Joe and Jake are always in trouble because of him. That's why all this started: New-Papa got mad at Johnny, so Jake hit him with a shovel. 

Now they're here, and not home, and Joe doesn't have a sweater because he gave it to Johnny. If Johnny had his blanket, he could share it with Joe and then they would both be warm. But he doesn't have it, and that's not fair.

 "Aren't you cold?" Johnny asks. 

"I'll be okay," Joe says, even though he looks really sad. He presses his forehead against John's for a moment, then goes back to sit on his chair. “Don’t look so worried. We’ll be fine.”

Johnny feels a bit better. Joe is always right. He knows all kinds of things that grown-ups, and even Jake, don't know. Like how to listen to silence and how the weather is going to change.

 "Okay," Johnny says. He tries to stop fidgeting, and smiles. Maybe if he tries to look happy, Joe will be less sad. He doesn't want Joe to be sad.

Joe reaches out and holds Johnny's hand again, squeezing gently in that way that always makes Johnny feel safe and this time he does it right and it doesn't hurt. So maybe Johnny's smile is working and Joe does feel better now. He hopes so, and smiles harder.

The door opens.

* * *

 

'Fine', as it turns out, is very subjective.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clarify, because this is The Internet and I don't want anybody getting funny ideas: many of the beliefs that John has, such as that he is a bad person because he drinks alcohol or because he is bisexual, are **not my own**. 
> 
> At this point in time, John believes himself to be a bad person because his parents abused him into believing that, and because they taught him that these things are evil. He has some very messed up ideas about himself and his self-worth which will continue into future chapters. Please do **not** mistake them for my own opinion.
> 
> Please remember to check the tags on this fic: they will be updated periodically, as and when appropriate. It is likely that the rating will go up in the future.

When Stephanie the receptionist calls John Duncan on that fateful morning, it’s a little past eleven AM on a punishingly hot June morning. John is knee-deep in property contracts for a shitty neighbourhood out in Rome (his birthplace, a couple hours away; unfortunately not the one in Italy), trying to gather contact details for the owners of said properties for a mass sale to developers looking to gentrify the area.

It’s boring and it’s much more difficult than it ought to be. Most of the people in these houses— if those awful little shacks can even be _called_ as such— are so poor as to be almost entirely cut off from the rest of American society. Phone lines and electricity have been cut, because nobody paid the bills. Letters sent to said addresses go unanswered— from lack of literacy, interest, or ability to answer, who knows? To avoid having to make the journey in person— he doesn’t have the time, dealing with all this in person would take _days_ if not longer— John’s making one last futile attempt to track down the people living in the neighbourhood from afar.

John yawns and stretches, momentarily leaning back in the leather chair he’d bought especially for this office. He’s exhausted: both mentally, from the excruciatingly boring contracts he has to read through, and physically, from the fact he’d gotten home after three AM, thanks to that delightfully filthy couple he’d met yesterday evening on his way back from dinner with a client. Every muscle in his body aches, but it was worth it. Good _God_ , was it worth it.

John takes a sip of the coffee on his desk. It’s lukewarm, but that’s only to be expected considering how the air conditioning is on full-blast in a futile attempt to stave off the punishing Atlanta heat. It doesn’t help his fatigue much, and he’s got to get his list finished before he leaves the office tonight. He’s got a couple packs of Adderall in the bottom drawer of his desk, sitting next to a bottle of bourbon, a box of condoms, and maybe two grams of coke. He taps his fingers against the desk drawer. Might be worth taking a _little_ hit, just to pep himself up enough to power through this next stack of contracts…

The phone on John’s desk rings. He takes another hurried sip of cool coffee before picking up.

“Good morning, John Duncan speaking,” John says, smooth and suave and completely professional.

“I have a Mr. Joseph Seed here to see you, Mr. Duncan,” Stephanie replies, sweetly. “Shall I send him up?”

John hesitates.

There’s no way that it could be _that_ Joseph Seed. When John searched for Joseph and Jacob last year, once he’d finally had the time, it had looked like they’d both fallen off the face of the planet— Jacob fairly recently, after a stint in a military hospital, and Joseph pretty much as soon as he’d become a legal adult.

John had assumed they were probably dead, to be honest. Or that they didn’t want to be bothered. And— well, why would either of his brothers want to look for him now? It’s been so long. Surely they would have tried to contact him sooner, if they’d wanted to at all. And why on earth would they want to? It’s not like John is that adorable baby brother they once knew.

It’s somebody else. It has to be.

“No need, I’ll be right down,” John says. He quickly orders the papers on his desk into neat piles, saves his work, and takes his jacket off the hook near the door, shrugging it on as he heads downstairs.

He smooths his hair back in the elevator, critically examining his reflection. He looks good, like always. He’s clean-shaven, his dark red suit contrasting with the bright blue of his eyes. He wills his heart to stop beating so fast. It can’t be Joe. It just can’t be. It’ll be someone with the same name. An unfortunate coincidence. That's all.

John Duncan steps out of the elevator, back straight, confidence oozing from every pore. His pace slows only briefly when he catches sight of the man speaking to Stephanie, the echoes of his voice all rural Southern charm.

This man is clearly older than John, in his late twenties or early thirties. He’s wearing yellow-tinted aviators, and a cheaply-made suit that’s slightly ill-fitting, but very carefully pressed. His shoes are ancient, scuffed and worn but polished to hell and back. Poor, verging on impoverished.

What John can see of his profile is pretty similar to John’s own— the shape of the nose, the colour of his hair, the pallor of his skin. And then the man glances up, at John, and—

John _knows_ those eyes, as washed-out as they are behind the yellow glass.

It’s _him_.

It’s Joseph.

John’s heart stops for a full second. His breath catches in his lungs. His legs want to collapse beneath his own weight.

It’s all John can do not to break there and then. He forces himself to keep putting one foot in front of the other, to keep drawing air into his lungs, to keep his confident smile plastered over his face.

“Joseph Seed?” John asks, holding his hand out for a shake. Joseph smiles, and obliges, his hand warm and dry and homely.

“The very same,” Joseph replies, a heavy rural twang to his voice. He sounds so very different, and yet so very familiar. The low-pitched drawl is a natural development of the high-pitched, boyish chatter John half-remembers from his early childhood. “John Duncan, I presume?”

“It’s good to see you again,” John says. The gracious host instincts that Mrs Duncan literally beat into John take over, and he says, almost on autopilot: “Please, come on up.”

“Of course,” Joseph nods, a pleased smile quirking the corners of his mouth. He probably won’t smile at John like that for long— he’s got to enjoy this while it lasts.

They step into the elevator, ride up in silence. John has to force himself to avoid staring at Joseph, to drink in every detail, to attempt to deduce everything that’s happened since they last saw each other all those years ago, in that sad little orphanage. The silence is deafening; John desperately wants to break it, but has no idea what to say. To ask what Joseph has been up to in the years since they last spoke seems… trite. There aren’t any words that really, truly describe what he’s feeling. The yawning void that’s opened in his heart, the whirlwind of disjointed thoughts raging in his head, ‘why now?’ and ‘what about Jake?’ and ‘I love you’ and ‘I’m sorry’.

They step out on the twelfth floor, and John leads Joseph to his office in silence. He opens the door, they step inside, and John just… stares at Joseph in silence for a moment, leaning against his desk as Joseph hovers near the couch, clearly unsure of what to do, of what to say. They’re brothers, but they may as well be strangers.

“It’s been a while,” John says, and to his horror, his voice starts cracking, his eyes prickling with unshed tears.

“It has,” Joseph agrees, and he genuinely looks sorry. He hesitates. “I tried to find you before, but I didn’t know the name of that couple. This was a wild guess.”

“Looks like it paid off,” John manages, his breath hitching despite his best efforts, hot water starting to drip from his eyes. Damn it— he didn’t want to cry. He takes his silk handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wipes at his eyes, frustrated.

Joseph steps forward, looking pained, and that’s all John needs. He quickly wraps his arms around his brother, presses his face into Joseph’s shoulder, just like he used to do all those years ago, blanket in hand, and he _weeps_.

A warm hand presses against John’s shoulder, the weight of Joseph’s arm a comforting presence. He can’t do anything but cling to Joseph, years of pent-up loneliness and sorrow and frustration slowly escaping with every tear. Joseph feels different— he’s less sharp and angular as an adult, his beard tickling John’s ear and neck as he sobs into Joseph’s shoulder— yet somehow it’s the same. He smells mostly of cheap deodorant and books, and the warmth of his skin is just the same as it always was.

God. He’s _needed_ this.

John doesn’t know how long he cries, nor exactly why he started in the first place. He should be happy, seeing Joseph again. And he is, God, he is— but he’s sad, too. They should’ve met so much sooner. They never should have been separated at all. (Not that Joseph ought to have been taken by the Duncans too— dear _God_ , no— but they should’ve been _together_ and in contact with Jake, and that would have been enough.)

“It’s all right,” Joseph murmurs. He has his fingers buried in John’s hair, stroking in smooth, gentle motions, just as John remembers from his early years.

John eventually lifts his head, wipes his face clean of tears and snot with his handkerchief.

“I ruined your suit,” he says, apologetically.

“Probably would’ve gotten ruined anyway,” Joseph says. “It’s only a suit.”

It’s obviously the finest thing Joseph owns, John thinks. And isn’t that Joseph in a nutshell? Brushing off every slight, no matter how severe, because he doesn’t want John to feel bad?

“You really haven’t changed at all,” John says, a small chuckle escaping from his mouth. Joseph is still, above all else, selflessly kind.

“Neither have you,” Joseph says, squeezing John’s shoulder affectionately. “I was afraid that you might have forgotten me. You were very young when we were separated.”

“How could I ever forget you?” John asks, though he’s not looking for an answer. “Or Jacob, for that matter?”

Joseph chuckles, unbridled joy stretching across his face in a warm smile.

“It’s good to see you,” Joseph says.

This time, the silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s comfortable. John basks in it for a moment— it’s nice, so unbelievably _nice_ to be able to just be in the company of someone who truly, honestly cares.

“Are you hungry?" John asks. "I know a great place just around the corner.”

“Well, I—“ Joseph starts. He seems conflicted, a little flustered. John’s got a pretty good idea why— this is the financial quarter of Atlanta, all shiny and expensive, and there’s not a place within three blocks where you can get a decent three-course meal for under a hundred dollars. “— yes, but—“

“Great, then it’s my treat,” John says, and smoothly starts herding Joseph back to the reception. “I want to hear everything— we’ve got _years_ to catch up on. So much has _happened_. I don’t even know where to begin.”

“What about your work?” Joseph asks, and John isn’t sure whether he’s uncomfortable at the thought of John paying or at the thought of John getting in trouble for neglecting his job.

“I’m almost finished,” John says, and it’s not really a lie. He’ll snort a couple lines and finalise the list when he gets back. All he needs is an hour or so of hyperfocus and he’ll be fine. “I have plenty of time to get it done, anyway.”

“Oh,” Joseph looks a little less ill-at-ease. “Well, I’m glad to hear that.”

When they arrive at the reception, John flashes Stephanie a charming smile.

“I’m heading out for an early lunch with a potential client. I’ll be back later this afternoon.”

“Of course, sir,” Stephanie nods, smiling back.

John drags Joseph to a good-quality bistro on the next block. It’s a nice place, he’s been here often. It’s the kind of place that serves upmarket versions of homely classics. Joseph looks aghast at the prices on the menu, so John orders more lavishly than he normally would. An artisan bread basket with locally-sourced cheeses and meats and chutneys to share. For himself, fillet mignon. He doesn’t even really like it, he’s just trying to set Joseph’s mind at ease, to show that he can afford to treat his long-lost brother.

“And two of your finest bourbons, on the rocks, please,” he tells the waitress. Joseph’s head snaps up, from where he’s been worriedly perusing the menu.

“Oh— I’m sorry, but I don’t drink,” he says, apologetically. John mentally kicks himself: he should’ve guessed. He doesn’t remember much of the time before he was taken in by the Duncans, but he remembers that his birth father drank a lot. If he’d been an alcoholic, of _course_ Joseph would abstain. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_. 

“No bourbon and— two sweet teas?” John tries again. Joseph smiles, clearly relieved, and then orders the cheapest meal on the menu—old-fashioned chicken and dumplings. Which is an exercise in futility, because it’s still nearly fifty dollars.

They fall into silence when the waitress leaves, but it doesn’t last long. Joseph is full of questions: what has life been like for John? John does his best to answer, skipping over the least desirable parts of the last twenty years. Joseph doesn’t need to know about the Duncan’s abuse and their failed exorcisms. He doesn’t need to think that John is weak or a liability or worse. He doesn’t need to know that John drinks a lot, that he regularly snorts cocaine, that he’s bisexual, that he’s a bad person.

“I saw your degree on the wall,” Joseph says. “Harvard. I’m so proud of you.”

John doesn’t say that his admission was probably equal parts his parents’ influence and money as it was his own effort, so he just smiles.

“Thank you,” he says. “I actually had an athletics scholarship. I was captain of the javelin team during senior year. Ran track and field for a while, too.”

“I knew it,” Joseph shakes his head. “I _knew_ you’d flourish. You were always destined for great things.”

John laughs politely, deflects the praise, and the conversation continues. Joseph had bounced from foster home to foster home, too old and too quiet and not cute enough to fit in, to be loved. As soon as he’d turned eighteen, he’d been kicked out, and that’s why the records stopped. Homelessness. He’d managed to start clawing his way out about two years back, but it’s been hard.

John’s heart _breaks_ at that revelation. While he’d been in school, studying hard, while he’d been in college, partying hard, Joseph had been suffering.

“What are you doing nowadays?” John asks, eager to change the subject to something more pleasant.

“I’m a preacher,” Joseph answers. “My flock is very small, but I hope to save many souls in the future.”

John nods. Yes— he can see it now. Joseph, standing at a pulpit. Of course, he’d be so _good_ at that: he’s got that calm, paternal sort of personality that befits a man of the cloth.

“And what about you? I know that you’re a lawyer, but what are your plans for the future?” Joseph leans forward, clearly interested to hear the answer.

“I’m not sure,” John admits. “Continue building my career. Maybe get married at some point. I haven’t given it much thought.”

“Oh, that's wonderful. Marriage is a beautiful thing,” Joseph says. He’s obviously eagerly latching onto the idea of John getting hitched, which wasn’t John’s intention. _If_ it happens to John, it won’t be any time soon. He likes cock too much, likes having the freedom to bed whichever beautiful person catches his eye.

After a moment, Joseph continues, a smile curling the corners of his mouth.

“I was married, actually. I’d never been happier.”

“Was?” John asks, ready to offer his legal services, get back whatever that woman got from Joseph in the divorce. He'll leave _her_ homeless if he has to.

Joseph’s smile turns very sad.

“There was a car accident,” he says, quietly, and his earlier joy makes a lot more sense now. John shouldn't have jumped to conclusions, shouldn't have assumed ill of Joseph's late wife.

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” John replies, and he reaches forward, places a hand over Joseph’s, hoping to somehow comfort him. Joseph nods, and a sombre moment of silence passes. His eyes look very wet.

“Let’s talk about something happier,” Joseph says, taking a deep breath. “I didn’t try to find you just to make you sad.”

“Of course,” John agrees, whole-heartedly. He wants things to go well, he wants _this_ to go well.

“What is it that you do, work-wise? There are all different types of law, aren’t there?”

“I deal with property,” John says, and that’s when the waitress arrives with the entrée. John thanks her, though not quite as profusely as Joseph. “Actually, my current project is up in Rome. I’m preparing a mass sale to developers, so I’m tracking down each homeowner in a particular neighbourhood.”

“Which neighbourhood?” Joseph asks, and so obviously John tells him. Joseph’s reaction is strange. He blinks twice, frowns, pausing in the middle of buttering a piece of rye bread.

“Well, isn’t that a coincidence…” Joseph murmurs, obviously surprised. “Have you found the owners of fifty-three Jefferson yet?”

“I haven’t gotten that far,” John says. “It seemed logical to start at the highway and work my way southwest. Why do you ask?”

“That’s our old house,” Joseph says, clearly surprised that John doesn’t remember that. “I was curious as to whether our parents still lived there.”

“Oh,” John says. The name had sounded familiar, when his boss gave him this contract in the first place, but he hadn’t realised…

John hurriedly clears his throat.

“I’ll let you know as soon as I do,” he says. “I’m curious too.”

A thought occurs to him. If Joseph found John, and if John finds their bio-parents (not that he’ll give either of them the time of day after everything that happened, but he wants them to _know_ how much he’s grown, how insignificant and pathetic and worthless they are in comparison to him), then… well. Maybe they’ll find Jacob, too.

The rest of their lunch goes smoothly— the steak is delicious, and Joseph clearly enjoys his meal. He tries not to show it, but he’s clearly starving. Impoverished and hungry. That’s not a good sign. John makes a mental note: he needs to figure out how he can offer help without insulting his brother.

John picks up the bill with his credit card, leaves a 30% tip in cash. It turns out that Joseph lives in Atlanta nowadays. He doesn't offer any further information, so John doesn't pry. 

“Good,” John says. “We have time to catch up.”

Joseph gives John his cellphone number, and John’s already mentally rearranging his schedule to maximise their time together. He's well aware that it's stupid to throw himself in deep like this— as soon as Joseph figures out how screwed up John is, what an awful man he’s become, he’s sure to stop loving John— but John can’t stop himself. He’s dreamt of reuniting with his brothers for years. After the Duncans and their constant, never-ending abuse, he needs love and validation, no matter how short-lived it is. The second someone shows him affection, he’s utterly ruined. It's pathetic.

John knows all-too-well how pitiful his current state is. John Duncan is a successful man on the outside: he’s had an excellent education, is highly respected and well-regarded in his line of work, and he’s filthy fucking rich. On the inside, he’s a complete mess.

John knows he drinks too much. He takes so many recreational drugs that he’s pretty sure he’s significantly boosted the GDP of Kyrat single-handedly. He gets irrationally angry at the smallest provocation, sees the worst in everybody and everything. He doesn’t talk to his neighbours, doesn’t go to church anymore, he gambles regularly, hasn’t donated to charity in God-knows-how long. He’s incredibly needy, a literal attention whore: all a person has to do is show the slightest _hint_ of interest in him and he’ll offer his body like a piece of meat, hoping against all hope that this time he’ll finally feel satisfied, and he never, ever does.

John’s parents were right: there’s a deep abscess of sin within his soul. A stain that can never be removed, that will always taint him from the inside out.

Maybe Joseph won’t see that. Maybe Jacob won’t, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is set about 15/16 years before the game, in 2004. John is around 24 (I’m firmly subscribed to the headcanon that he lies about his age and is actually around 37 in-game because otherwise **none** of the timelines given make sense), Joseph is around 29 (having been widowed & murdered his daughter at 28-ish), and Jacob is around 34 (having been kicked out of the military hospital one or two years beforehand). I am assuming that the Seeds relocated to Hope County 10 to 12 years before the game, because… again… the conflicting timelines for this game make **no sense**. 
> 
> (hey, ubisoft. hire me as a writer and you won’t have this consistency problem again *kissy face emoji* )


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another flashback, guys. It involves the Duncans and very heavily implies physical abuse, and shows the beginning of the gaslighting/emotional abuse.

John— he’s not Johnny any more, he has to be grown-up, that’s what Joe said— carefully colours in a line of blue at the top of the paper. He adds a big smile to the yellow-orange sun in the corner, and makes sure that the grass on the bottom is green enough. It’s big and messy, just like the grass used to be at their first home. He used three different green crayons to do it, so it looks right.

Mommy crouches next to John. She’s so different to Mama. She smells like powder and perfume instead of to-back-oh smoke. She often talks to and plays with John, instead of staying in an armchair all day. She smiles and lot and giggles and peppers John with kisses all over his face and always gives him lots of hugs. But she’s scary in a way that Mama hadn’t been. She gets mad real easy, and it’s not a loud mad like Mama and Papa, it’s a quiet mad, so quiet John doesn’t always notice that she’s mad.

“What are you drawing?” Mommy asks. She looks unhappy, her eyes fixed on the crayon in John’s left hand.

“My family,” John says, and immediately wishes he hadn’t. Mommy and Daddy brought him here because they love him. He doesn’t want them to get mad. It’s nice to have a real bed and soft clothes and enough food, even if Joe and Jake aren’t here to enjoy it too. So he tries to say it again, say it right. “My old family. My brothers.”

“Oh?” Mommy asks. She frowns a little. “Do you miss them?”

John bites his lip. Maybe if he tells the truth, they might bring Joe here as well. And he really wants that— he wants to have Joe here, by his side, like he’s always been. He knows they won’t bring Jake because he went to Juvie, wherever that is. It sounds far away. But Joe…

“Yeah,” he says. “I miss them a lot.”

“You poor thing,” Mommy says, and she tuts. “But you know you don’t have to feel sad, don’t you? Now you have a new family. You have Daddy and I.”

“Yeah,” John says. He likes Mommy and Daddy. They’re very nice, when they aren’t mad. So that means that John just has to try harder to be extra good, and then they won’t be mad any more. It’s easy. Or at least it should be. He's not very _good_ at being good, even though he does his best.

“We’re your family, John,” Mommy says. “Dwelling in the past won’t help you.”

John doesn’t know what that means. It sounds bad, if Mommy thinks he shouldn’t do it.

“Can Joe come visit?” John asks, and Mommy’s mouth turns down at the corners.

“We’ll see,” she says. She taps one long, pink nail against the paper. “You need to behave yourself. And that means being grateful. Do you understand me, John?”

John nods, but that doesn’t seem to make Mommy happy again. That’s weird because she usually likes it when he says he understands something. Maybe she’s mad again. John hopes that she isn’t.

Mommy kisses John on the forehead and takes his picture of Joe and Jake away.

“I’m going to show Daddy,” she says. “Why don’t you draw another picture? With your right hand, this time?”

John isn’t sure that he can do that. His left hand is better for pictures. His right doesn’t ever seem to do what he wants.

John starts a new picture, this time of Mommy and Daddy, with John in the middle. He makes sure to give them all big smiles, so that Mommy knows how grateful he is, and he puts lots of pretty flowers next to the house, just like the gar-deen-yas that Mommy keeps on the porch in little white pots.

It’s a really good picture, John decides. Maybe Mommy will be happy if she sees it.

John takes the picture downstairs. They already ate dinner, so Mommy and Daddy are in the living room, where Daddy likes to sit after a long day's work. Daddy is frowning over the picture in his hands. John swallows. Daddy's kind of mad is real similar to Mommy's. He doesn't usually _look_ mad. But he's frowning now, and that's really bad. Is it because John drew his old family?

Showing them the new picture will make them less mad, John decides. He knocks on the open door, and Mommy looks surprised to see him.

“John?” she asks. “What have you got there?”

“A present,” he says, and he holds it out. “For you, Mommy. I drew us.”

Mommy’s face does a weird thing. Her mouth stretches, but it’s not a smile. Her eyebrows draw together, but she’s not mad. Her eyes sparkle, but she doesn’t cry. She crouches, so she’s eye level with John.

“Do you love me, John?” Mommy asks, holding the new picture in both hands. Her voice is strange, like she’s sick.

“Yes,” John says, because he does. “I love you a lot, Mommy. And Daddy, too.”

“That’s good,” Mommy says, softly. She closes her eyes for a moment, then opens them. She looks at Daddy, who also comes over to John, putting a kind hand on his shoulder. He's not frowning any more. Good.

“We love you so much, John,” Daddy says.”And that means that we want you to grow up well. We want you to be healthy and happy, and most of all good. Do you want that too, John?”

John nods.

“I’m glad,” Mommy says, and she’s smiling again. John smiles too— it’s good that Mommy isn’t mad anymore.

“Now, it’s great that you want to be good for us,” Daddy says. “But it’s going to be hard. We need to get you clean, John.”

“But I had a bath this morning,” John says. He remembers, because Ms. Rosa let him play with the rubber ducks and sang lots of nice-sounding things while she helped him wash his hair. 

“We need to get you clean on the _inside_ ,” Mommy says, and she holds his cheek gently. “Your old family let bad things grow inside you. They taught you wrong. Your heart is rotten, John, and we need to make that right.”

John bites his lip. He didn’t know hearts could do that.

“Come on,” Daddy says, reaching for John’s hand. He leads John into the kitchen, and Mommy follows them. She places a Bible and the pictures on the counter, and closes the door. Daddy undoes his belt and holds it in his right hand, a loose loop.

Mommy makes John sit on the cold tiled floor, and then helps John pull his white shirt over his head. She folds it nicely and puts it on the counter, with the pictures.

Daddy picks up the Bible, and flips it open. He clears his throat.

“In the beginning,” Daddy reads aloud, “was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm firmly subscribed to the fanon theory that John is naturally left-handed (and essentially taught himself ambidextrousness). You can read more[ here.](https://unclefungusthegoat.tumblr.com/post/174568410779/a-theory-about-john-seed)


End file.
